


A Werewolf Cold

by Mandibles



Series: In which I try to cope with the Colton Thing [14]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: DEREK'S CREAM HE'S SO WHIPPED, HE JUST DOESN'T REALIZE, Humor, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-16
Updated: 2012-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-18 19:17:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandibles/pseuds/Mandibles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jackson is a whiny, sick brat and knows exactly which of Derek's buttons to press.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Werewolf Cold

The thing is, somehow, even after the kanima fiasco is—for the most part—taken care of and Jackson finally becomes the werewolf he’s hounded Derek to be, he still manages to be a major sore in Derek’s side. Especially since Jackson’s technically ‘dead’ now and has had to shack up with the three of them—Isaac, Peter, and Derek himself—in the train depot which is a stark difference to whatever mansion Whittemore used to live in. But, the whining and bitching and moaning is not what does Derek in in the end; no, it’s the fact that, out of all the werewolves Derek has ever met in his time, Jackson fucking Whittemore just _has_ to be the first to catch a cold of all things.

Derek doesn’t believe it at first—doesn’t want to—but, after Isaac tentatively, continuously points it out and Peter pokes and pokes with a lilting smirk and _Scott_ of all people raises his concern, Derek finds himself giving in. Next thing he knows, he’s stepping with a creak into the train car Jackson’s holed himself in for the past few days and snaps his attention to the sullen slump of shoulders in a seat a little ways over. Sick is a familiar scent for Derek to catch, yet that still doesn’t convince him, because werewolves just . . . don’t get sick. End of story.

There’s a wet sniffle. “You could’ve knocked, you know,” Jackson whines, all nasally and dumb.

Derek folds his arms, shifts his weight. “Get over yourself, Jackson. This isn’t your bedroom.”

“It’s not yours either—” Jackson’s shoulders tense; the sentence dies.

And, Derek continues to snarl, letting his eyes flare red. “Mine more than yours,” he hisses back, nasty for nastiness’ sake. “Now stop moping.”

“ _Moping_? I’m not fucking—”

“Then, what are you doing besides being a pain in my ass?”

Jackson glances over his shoulder, nose pink and runny, and regards Derek with a pathetic scowl. “Look, I’m just sick, alright?” he grumbles with a sniff.

Derek waves him off with a snort. “No, you’re not.”

“Wha—Are you saying that I’m faking it?”

“No, _you_ said you’re faking. I said you’re not sick.”

“Why the hell would I lie about this?”

“Because, you’re a brat.” Jackson bristles, affronted. “And, werewolves don’t get sick, Jackson,” Derek adds offhandedly.

Now Jackson turns completely towards him, his arms folded over the back of the seat and, ugh, okay, gross. His face is flushed in spots and sticky with mucus; his eyes are watery, red-rimmed, but Derek takes care to ignore that. “Well, apparently they do,” Jackson drawls.

“No, they don’t.”

“Are you kidding—” Jackson pauses, his jaw snapping shut with a click. Then, there’s that irritatingly familiar pull of arrogance. “You know what? Whatever. I mean, it’s not the first time you’ve been wrong.”

Derek snarls again, but this time Jackson stands his ground with a smirk, knowing he’s struck a nerve. And, that only infuriates Derek further. “If you’re well enough to bitch,” he spits, “then you’re well enough to train.”

Jackson groans and curls back up into his ball. “That’s not fair!”

“It’s perfectly fair, smart mouth!”

Growls rumbling, they glower at each other with curled fists and glowing eyes. Moments like this, Derek wonders what possessed him that night, what made him think that biting Jackson would end in anything but complete and utter shit. Even if Jackson has proven himself to be the powerful—and occasionally, _occasionally_ competent—werewolf Derek had anticipated him to be before he’d gone in for the chase; this kind of bullshit really cancels out his usefulness, now that Derek thinks about it.

The stare-off lasts a moment more before Jackson breaks eye contact with a full-bodied sneeze that, admittedly, is kind of cute. Cute, but still wet and disgusting as fuck.

So, the cold thing might be an actual concern. That’s . . . worrying.

Jackson sniffles, then groans in dismay. “Ugh, I _hate_ this.”

Derek leans against the wall of the car, huffs a put upon sigh. “Fucking A. Okay, so what will it take to get you out of here,” he demands. He pointedly avoids the disbelief thrust in his direction, sets his jaw and glares off in the distance. “I’m only going to ask you once.”

A pause, then, voice still thick with suspicion and congestion, Jackson declares, “Cold medicine, I guess?” He ponders a second more, then adds, “And, tissues, the soft ones with the lotion. Blankets would be nice, too. With a pillow. A big pillow. And, maybe you can get some soup? And—”

“One thing!” Derek hisses, shoving one finger.

Jackson scoffs. “Well, fine, whatever. I’ll just call McCall, then; at least I know he would take care of—”

The train car squeaks as Derek stomps forward, now with three fingers. “Fine! Three things! I will get you three things! Three things and that’s it, end of deal!”

That brings a slight—and painfully victorious—grin to Jackson’s face. “That works for me. Then, I’ll take,” he raises a finger, “the cold medicine, and,” another, “the blanket, and then,” the third finger, “Soup. Clam chowder. New England.” Jackson’s nose scrunches just a bit. “I guess I’ll make do without a pillow.”

Derek scowls. “It’s August. How the hell am I going to find New England clam chowder?”

“ _McCall_ would—”

“Stop bringing Scott— _argh_!” Derek turns on his heel, throws up his arms, and leaves without a-coherent—word. He takes note of the laughter that trails after him and swears that Jackson Whittemore? He is going to get it. Maybe not now, maybe not tomorrow, but Derek is going to put his stupid fucking Beta in his place. He’s going to make Jackson train until he breaks something, run until he sweats blood; Derek’s going to put that brat to _work_.

. . . After Derek runs some errands, of course. Because, dammit, he’s a better Alpha than Scott could ever be. Honestly. He is. He’ll even bring a pillow. Two, even.

When Derek grabs for his jacket and brushes past Peter out the door in a fury, Peter coughs something into his fist that sounds a lot like, “ _Whipped_.”


End file.
